


Infest

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Angst, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:08:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the tour bus breaks down Chester is forced to relive some memories he'd rather forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infest

They've broken down. In the middle of buttfuck nowhere. Which would be fine if the heating on the bus still fucking worked. But of course it doesn't. And of course it's fucking cold out. So they hike their asses a couple of miles along the road, nobody but them around. There are no street lights and Joe's psycho killer jokes are starting to really freak Chester out.

It's fucking freezing and his pack is heavy. His cellphone battery, dead. His boyfriend is joking about axe murderers with Joe and Mike and Dave whilst Chester and Rob trudge along uncomfortably side by side, the rest of their entourage following them.

And then. The motel. Chester takes one look at it and stares hard at their tour manager, “Are you kidding me?”

This motel is where people go to die. Suicide notes saying stuff like “Gloomy Sunday”. Razors, bath tubs. Everything everywhere stained and uncleaned because in the morning the staff will only have to scrub blood off of the carpet again.

When the guy behind the desk hands him a key he stomps off toward the room. The door, it isn't locked, and as he and Brad step inside and try to lock it behind them it becomes apparently that the door isn't the only thing broken.

The TV has been on fire at some point, stained with smoke up the sides. The window won't open to let out the musty smell. Chester takes one look at the bed and then stares at Brad angrily. “I'm not sleeping in that fucking thing.”

Brad bites his lip and takes a step closer, inspecting the sheets. “Maybe if we just sleep on top of them...”

“Then we might as well sleep in the fucking parking lot.” Chester snaps. He jumps when a cockroach scurries out from under the bed and disappears into the bathroom. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“We could always just go back to the bus?”

Chester shakes his head. “They said it wasn’t safe. Like this is any safer.”

Brad steps forward and kisses him softly, wrapping his arms around his waist. “It could be worse,” he says, although he isn’t sure how. He goes over to the bed and pulls off the top sheet, shaking it thoroughly before putting it back down. He does the same with the pillows, trying not to cringe. After a moment he sits on the edge of the bed warily and pulls off his shoes. “Clothes on?”

Chester nods, looking disgusted. “Yeah, I guess.” He digs his toothbrush from his bag and drifts into the bathroom. The water from the tap runs brown and never clears. And it’s hard for him not to scream. When he walks back into the bedroom Brad is sitting in the same spot on the bed. Over head, the main light fizzles out and dies, plunging the room into semi-darkness.

“I’m going to kill myself, okay?”

Brad lies down on the bed and pats the space beside him. “Try not to think about it, okay? It’s just one night. And tomorrow we’ll be back to five star suites.”

Chester nods and climbs onto the bed, lying down with his head on Brad’s shoulder. “Yeah. Okay.”

Brad kisses his hair softly and entwines their legs. “We’ll order a tonne of room service. And rock the mini bar.”

“I don’t. You shouldn’t think I’m being a princess, okay?”

“I don’t.” Brad murmurs quietly.

“You probably do. This isn’t a I-won’t-stay-in-a-hotel-less-than-five-stars thing, okay? You just have to know that. I’ve slept in my fucking car before.”

“I know that.” Brad looks down at Chester who doesn’t look up at him, stares straight ahead at the dirty white paint on the wall, illuminated grey by the flood lights in the parking lot.

“And you should know I couldn’t bare this without you.”

Brad smiles and runs a hand over Chester’s back. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not. I just. I remember the last time I was in a place like this.”

“That was then,” Brad says, his voice suddenly blank, “this is now. Stop thinking about it.”

“Fine.” Chester mumbles and slips his hand under Brad’s shirt, feeling his heart beat hard under his palm. Brad thinks he knows, but Chester didn’t even tell him the half of it. He doesn't want to.

The last time he was in a place like this his friend Matt said, “That money I owe you? I can get it today. But you have to come with me.”

“Where?”

“Just this motel. I have something for the guy there. Then I'll get your money.”

So Chester got in the car and lets Matt drive them out of town. The motel, it could be a hole in the ground. Everything around it is dead or dying, probably like the people inside. Matt goes straight to room fourteen without going for a key. He knocks three times fast then twice slow and the door eases open.

He leads Chester into the darkness of the motel room, the door closing behind him. The first thing he notices are syringes, used and bent, burned spoons, little baggies of cocaine and heroin lying around ready to be freebased.

He shouldn't have come here.

Matt says nothing, pulls out a paper sack from his messenger bag, hands it to the guy who is lounging on the bed. The guy, his long hair falls in his face as he digs through the bag, then looks up at Matt, “Are you kidding me with this?”

Not enough, or something. Not the right drugs. Who knows? It's hard to think once they pull out a gun. Chester goes deaf, doesn't hear the threats, the yells. The gun shot, though, he hears.

And “You're next.”

And thinking yeah, I'm going to die here.

But then they say “You blab, and we'll find you.”

And then, “We'll teach you a lesson.”

The gun is gone, he knows that much. The guy pushes him onto to the bed, face first into the stains and the stink. And all he can see through the pain is Matt's body slumped against the wall in the corner.

And sure that was then, and this is now. But all through the night, every time a truck rattles by or someone pulls up into the parking lot, every car backfire keeps him awake. Like gun fire. And stranger's hands on his skin.


End file.
